James Grippando - The Abduction

“Is this a crank?”

“Would a crank know that Kristen’s school ID was on the back of the ransom demand?”

Tanya shivered at the realization-it was him. On impulse, she hit the record button on her answering machine, taping the call. “Please”-her voice shook-“don’t hurt my daughter. You can have whatever you want. Just let her go.”

“I told you what I want. A million dollars. By tomorrow morning. And no cops.”

“I want to give it to you. Really I do.”

“That’s not what your father said on TV last night.”

She winced, silently cursing her father. “Don’t listen to him. Just deal with me, all right? I’ll get you your money, and I’ll keep the cops out of it. I promise. Just don’t hurt Kristen.”

“What do you mean, you’ll get the money? Do you have it or don’t you?”

“I don’t have it, but I can get it. I just need a little time.”

“You’ve got until tomorrow morning.”

“I need more time.”

“Bullshit. No stalling.”

The harshness came through, even with the distortion. Her hand was suddenly trembling. “I’m not stalling. A million dollars is a lot of money.”

“I said tomorrow morning.”

“I-I don’t know.” She could hardly speak. “Okay. Tomorrow morning. I’ll have it.”

“You’re lying.”

She swallowed hard. “What?”

“You can’t raise the money by tomorrow morning. Not without your old man’s help.”

“No, I can do it. Really. I can.” She waited, but there was no reply. A surge of desperation erupted inside her. “Didn’t you hear me?” Her voice cracked. “I said I’ll do it. I will. God, yes, I will !”

“I don’t believe you can.” The reply was so calm it chilled her. “And you know what, Tanya? I don’t trust you, your father, or anyone in your whole damn family. So why don’t you stingy black bastards just keep your million dollars. Truth is, the world is going to be a whole lot better place with one less Howe in it.”

“No, wait!”

The line clicked, and she heard only the dial tone.

Lincoln Howe summoned the key decision makers for a campaign strategy meeting that afternoon. Howe and his campaign director, Buck LaBelle, shared a limo to Washington National Airport. Some were flying in and others would be flying out, so the airport was a logical meeting spot. The refurbished 727 jet was at the gate when they arrived, its clean white fuselage emblazoned with the bright red and blue campaign message: HOWE-ENDICOTT 2000.

Dwight Endicott was the first person Howe saw as he boarded the airplane. The vice presidential candidate had just flown in from Cleveland after two full days of campaigning in the key state of Ohio. Endicott had never served in the military, but he had the broad shoulders, imposing stature, and no-nonsense expression of an ex-Marine. He’d made his mark as the high-profile head of the Drug Enforcement Agency. A best-selling book and several years on the profitable lecture circuit had helped spin his anti-drug message into a larger theme of renewed morality. His campaign trademark was the flash of the V sign, like Churchill or FDR-only Endicott’s V stood not for victory but values. He was the right-wing component of the Republican ticket, an appeasement to the fundamentalists and pro-life advocates who were concerned, if not alarmed, by General Howe’s moderate positions on social issues.

“Did you have a good trip?” Howe asked his running mate.

“Ohio’s in the bag,” Endicott said with a smile.

The candidates moved to the working area of the airplane, a small room just forward of the galley. Bolted-down couches, leather chairs, and a Formica worktable replaced the usual rows of airline seats. Howe and Endicott sat on the couch with their backs to the portal windows. Buck LaBelle sat across the table with John Eaton, a brilliant but sometimes absent-minded pollster who could work miracles with a notebook computer, provided he hadn’t inadvertently left it behind in the airport men’s room. Seated beside him was Evan Fitzgerald, the media consultant Endicott had insisted be in charge of developing and testing all television ads. Howe respected Fitzgerald’s work, even though he was one of those self-important Ivy League snobs whom Howe hated, the kind of guy who would never come right out and tell you he was a Harvard man, but who somehow managed to weave into every conversation a sentence that began with “When I lived in Cambridge…”

The plane wasn’t scheduled to leave Washington for an hour, and it would be at least thirty minutes before the crew, the campaign staffers, and the traveling media would board. For the moment, the brain trust had the desired privacy. Howe took the opening few minutes telling them about his Oval Office meeting with President Sires.

“The bottom line,” he concluded, “is that the president doesn’t want me to say another word about calling out the troops to fight child abductors. If I don’t put a lid on it, we’ll have to contend with a nasty White House leak to the effect that the FBI’s investigation is now focusing on someone from my own campaign staff who orchestrated Kristen’s abduction to swing the election.”

“I say let them leak it.” It was Eaton, the pollster, speaking with the open computer in his lap. “My numbers show that people just won’t buy it. Men, women, black, white, old, young. It doesn’t matter. Ninety percent of the American public believes that your speech last night was made purely out of love for your granddaughter. The mere suggestion that you or anyone around you is behind the kidnapping will be Leahy’s political death knell.”

LaBelle chomped on his unlit cigar. “I agree with Eaton, but let’s take it a step further. First rule of politics: If you’ve got bad news, out it yourself. Let’s not wait for the White House to leak it. Let’s do it ourselves, up front. Call a press conference and tell the American people that it’s come to our attention that the FBI is focusing on Howe’s campaign, and that it’s politically motivated propaganda orchestrated by the attorney general’s office.”

“Wait a minute,” said Endicott. The vice presidential candidate extended his arms like a preacher on his pulpit, reeling in everyone. “First of all, do we know for a fact that it isn’t one of our supporters who’s behind the kidnapping?”

An uncomfortable silence shrouded the group. Endicott waited, but no one spoke. “Second of all,” he continued, “who said Attorney General Leahy is behind the FBI’s investigation of our campaign? Do we know that to be true?”

The silence thickened. The men exchanged glances, saying nothing. Finally Howe spoke.

“It’s true,” he said, harking back to his conversation with the president, “because it can’t be proven false.”

LaBelle smiled wryly. “Well, General, I see you’ve transitioned very well from the rules of war to the rules of politics.”

“This is war,” he said somberly.

Allison reached her home in Georgetown within twenty minutes of her phone call with Harley Abrams, having left the Federal Triangle just before rush hour. With Peter’s help, she pulled down more than a dozen dust-covered boxes from the attic.

She flipped through several boxes at random, and chills went down her spine. Inside were yellowed newspaper clippings, a copy of the police report, cards and letters from friends and strangers alike, videotapes of television coverage, flyers and posters offering rewards, and reams of other materials-some relevant, some not so relevant to Emily’s abduction. The boxes made it all seem so organized, deceptively so. Much of it was a blur to her, not because of the passage of time, but because at the time it all happened her senses were numb. She knew that she’d attended the Crime Stopper meetings, that she’d personally thanked the hundreds of volunteers who searched the neighborhood. Yet she had little memory of it. The notes of phone calls were definitely hers. She logged every phone call. Reporters who wanted the personal touch to their stories. Well-meaning strangers and their false sightings. The false confessors-sickos who just wanted attention, and the genuinely depraved who had hurt someone else’s child and cleansed themselves by confessing to crimes they hadn’t committed. There was even a business card from the psychic she’d turned to in utter desperation, an old gypsy woman who held Emily’s blanket and picked Allison’s wallet, sending her on fruitless and frantic searches in places as far away as Canada.